“And why is that?” Lady Gresham brought her other hand over to clasp the top of his arm.
“Are you familiar with the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury?”
“I am not. Did this crime happen recently?”
“No, two hundred years ago. Overbury was thrown in the Tower after trying to caution his friend, Lord Rochester, against marrying his lover, the already wed Countess of Essex.”
Lady Gresham’s brow creased. “How could he marry the countess if she was already wed?”
“Rochester was the king’s favorite, and His Majesty supported the annulment of the Essexes’ marriage on the basis that Essex was impotent.”
Lady Gresham gasped. “Was he? How could they know?”
Harry shrugged. “There’s no telling for certain, of course, but Lady Essex had friends who dabbled in magic and poison. It’s assumed she made sure Essex took something that made him unable to perform in bed.” He glanced at her as a rush of heat swept over him. “My apologies. This is a rather indelicate conversation to be having.”
“Not at all. It’s fascinating. And if you don’t finish the tale, I shall never speak to you again.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want that.” He was enjoying himself far too much.
She looked over at him. “It sounds as though this Overbury fellow was sent to the Tower for unlawful reasons.”
“Indeed he was. He had the misfortune to anger the wrong people. Which was how he found himself murdered in the Tower.”
“What has any of this to do with Paternoster Row?” Lady Gresham asked.
“I’ll get there,” he said, as they turned from Carter Lane onto The Old Change. “It’s quite a convoluted story. Suffice to say that Overbury annoyed many people, including Rochester, who’d been his dear friend for quite some time. However, in the end, Rochester, sided with the manipulative woman who would eventually become his wife—”
“The former Countess of Essex.”
“Yes, her,” he said with a smile. “She and Rochester masterminded a plan to murder Overbury, and that planning took place—”
“In Paternoster Row,” she finished, giving him an eager look. “Do you know exactly where?”
“I don’t. It was the home of Anne Turner, the widow of a prominent doctor and supposed cunning woman. She dealt in potions and was, if you can believe it, a fortune-teller.”
Lady Gresham tripped, and Harry clutched her forearm before she lost her balance. “Thank you,” she said. “This is such a fantastical tale. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking.”
Harry cast a look back over his shoulder but didn’t immediately see any impediment. “You’re all right?”
“Quite. I promise I am not usually this clumsy.”
“Just when I’m around?” he asked, not intending to make it sound flirtatious, and yet it did. Or perhaps that was only in his mind as he considered whether he might distract her the way she distracted him. Hell, where was he in his story? “We studied the trial when I was at the Inns of Court.”
“The trial?”
“Two trials, actually. The first was regarding the annulment of Lord and Lady Essex, which involved the question of whether Essex was impotent. He was found to be, and the marriage was finally annulled after raising a considerable cloud of gossip.”
“I should say,” Lady Gresham murmured.
“The second trial, or trials, really, was regarding the murder of Overbury who was poisoned in the Tower. Lord and Lady Somerset—Rochester had been made Earl of Somerset upon his wedding to the former Lady Essex—and four conspirators, including Mrs. Turner and two employees at the Tower, were tried for a variety of crimes. It’s a quite fascinating study, really.”
“It sounds like it. Perhaps I’ll look for a book to read on the subject.”
“I have several, as well as my own treatise about it.” He guided her to the end of The Old Change, which had been lined almost exclusively with merchants, and no signs about a home for wayward children, and came onto Cheapside, where he turned left toward Paternoster Row.
“What happened to the accused?” she asked.
“All the coconspirators were hanged, including Mrs. Turner, who was in possession of wax figures that she apparently used in sorcery. She was found guilty of poisoning.”
“What a horrid affair.”
“It was, particularly when you consider the evidence presented and, in some cases, lack thereof.” Harry lifted a shoulder. “The trials of two hundred years ago were not as fair as they are today. If one was arrested at that time, he or she was almost universally found guilty. The process of the law has improved greatly.”
“I should hope so. Were Lord and Lady Somerset also hanged?”
“They were tried by their peers, and while Lady Somerset pled guilty, her husband did not. Nevertheless, both were convicted. However, they were not executed and instead lived in the Tower for seven years before they were released to live quietly in the countryside—without their titles or holdings, of course.”
“That punishment hardly seems fair. They organized the entire crime, did they not?”
“Yes.”
She scoffed. “People with wealth and privilege are held to different standards.”
Startled by the bitterness in her voice, Harry snapped his head to look at her. She looked as serene as ever, so perhaps he’d imagined the emotion in her tone. “You’re correct. And in this particular case, it served Lord and Lady Essex well. I’m sure a couple of Henry the Eighth’s wives would argue their privilege didn’t help them.” He said the last to provoke humor, just in case Lady Gresham had been angry. Did she dislike inequity as much as Harry did?
As they reached Ivy Lane, Lady Gresham pointed up the narrow street. “There’s the sign.”
His pulse quickening, Harry guided Lady Gresham around the corner. The house was across the lane and bore a small sign that read House for Waywerd Children. “I hope they aren’t teaching the children to spell.”
“At least they can write,” Lady Gresham said. “Many people in this area cannot. It’s terrible that not everyone can learn to read and write.”
He pivoted toward her. “Lady Gresham, you are a woman of singular thoughts and opinions when it comes to the less fortunate. How did you arrive at these sentiments?”
She hesitated briefly before answering. “I came from a poor family, Mr. Sheffield. I was fortunate to have caught the eye of my husband. I shall always care greatly for those in poverty.”
“How astonishing.” Harry would have wagered she’d been educated—and maybe she had been. “Was your father a vicar, perhaps?”
“No, he was not.” When she didn’t offer any other information, Harry was disappointed. He didn’t, however, pursue the issue since it seemed to make her uncomfortable. And why wouldn’t it? She was talking to the son of a bloody earl.
“Shall we go and speak with Mr. Winter? Assuming he’s actually there. I suspect the sign is meant to ward anyone off who might go in search of the home.”
“That seems like a great deal of trouble just to make something look real. Unless Madame Sybila expects someone will seek to verify the home’s existence.”